[At least there's fuckin' booze. That seems to be a constant in liminal hellish spaces -- always plenty of liquor for needy souls who find their way between the real world and whatever comes next. Angel's assuming this is some sort of weirdass purgatory -- fuck knows why he'd be here, but again: there's alcohol, he's not complaining.

The couch is definitely made for people, not seven-foot-tall spider demons, but Angel lets his lanky, creepy legs hang over the arm of the couch, sprawling across the sagging cushions and watching the TV glitch and sputter. Reminds him of Vox on a bad day. The images appear slowly -- Angel, six-armed and cackling and firing a variety of old-timey, 30s/40s-era weaponry into a horde of demons.

He chuckles, sips at his beer.] Heh. Good times. [Even as more and more violent and alarming images appear -- mostly of Angel killing other demons or engaging in a wide variety of increasingly kinky and improbable sex acts -- he remains unconcerned, absently swinging one foot back and forth, like he's watching a baseball game or something equally mundane. The running commentary keeps up:] Yeah, remember that...yup...that too...don't remember that, but seems like me...uh-huh...it's like a fuckin' greatest hits compilation, damn. Maybe I should start chargin'.

-- aw, what the fuck.

[Angel is pissed off -- not because the weird sexy buff guy had gotten all handsy (he doesn't mind that one bit, thank you~), but because he'd gone and disappeared, right when things were getting interesting. One set of hands on his hips, Angel wildly gestures with the other, unaware of his fluffy hair getting even fluffier, or his teeth even pointier. It seems like the glitchy programming isn't really sure what parts of a spider are the sexiest.]

I've been here two fuckin' hours and just when it finally looks like things are gonna get fuckin' interestin' and I'm gonna get fuckin' laid, he fuckin' goddamn vanishes!

[Turning on one high-heeled boot, Angel's glare falls on someone nearby, and he points grandly at them with all four currently visible hands.] You! It's your lucky goddamn day, toots, I won't even charge ya, just lemme get in your pants.

[Well, it's not getting railed by a sexy, sexy sexbot, but Angel will take it at this point. He hadn't shown up with all his arsenal of various weapons (he favors tommy guns, for the nostalgia factor, but even Hell's caught up with the times, so he'll take whatever), but even two at once are enough to have the little metal robots staggering and stumbling and sparking.

Cherry's bombs would be nice here -- or shit, even fuckin' Sir Pentious's warship bullshit. Angel doesn't like fighting alone, it's the mafioso in him. So, as soon as there's a break in the oncoming flood of tiny murderous robots, he's hoofing it through the creepy deserted streets until he finds someone else.]

Hey, hi, nice to meetcha, can you aim and pull a trigger? [At this point the shrapnel is getting dangerously close to shredding Angel's suit, and he is Not Having That Shit.]